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STOP CUTTING YOURSELF YOU EMO
Security Room This room is dominated by the west wall which consists of a multitude of security monitors, viewing each and every room within Autobot City. A desk in the middle of the room is bare, except for the terminal standard for every office here. A forcefield to the east makes sure that those in the Brig stay there. A window on the northern wall gives a good view of the forest beyond. Contents: Encore Crosshairs Kup's Nameplate TAI Relay Sensor Relay Sensor Station Main brig computer Obvious exits: Cell2 <2> leads to Cell2. Cell1 <1> leads to Cell1. Secure Doors leads to Main Lobby - Second Floor. White Cross Spaceman has set up a whole miniature laboratory in the darkest, most-out-of-the-way corner of the cellblock, complete with mysterious Erlenmeyer flasks, bubbling titration equipment, and the flickering glow of Bunsen burners. The sharp chemical tang of it all hits before the vision of the scene does, really. Pincher himself has laid down one of his arms on the worktable, stripped off the armour for the arm, all piled neatly nearby, strapped the arm down with some metal cuffs, and set up a series of cameras and monitoring devices. A serrated knife, slightly stained, sets on his tool tray. Pincher finishes jotting down one set of notes, and then he picks up the knife, commenting to the blade a bit wearily, "Well, let's do this again, shall we?" Then Pincher slices the knife down into his arm, across, down to the metal support structure. It's an ugly gash, showing pseudo-flesh muscles mixed with twitching, sparking wires. Encore enters the cell block after passing though at least one airlock or secure door or whatever, looking around. He immediately coughs at the chemical scent that's no doubt filling the entire security area. "Frag me..." He mutters, waving a hand infront of his face. "Smells worse than when one of my SHine batches goes wrong... they ain't been treatin' you guys bad 'ave dey?" Crosshairs is making his way into the area thirty seconds or so behind Encore. He looks exhausted, all things said and done. He's probably been up since the Pretenders arrived working on getting someone cleared or trying to figure out if they are a threat or not. He's carrying a very strange looking device. It looks like a giant compressed air paint gun, all gleaming metal and unpainted. The acrid scent of chemicals doesn't seem to bother him. If someone has ever smelled cordite or other chemical propellants, that is why Crosshairs is unbothered. What he is bothered by though, is what Pincher is doing. ".... HEY." He says, slapping the button to turn off the force field as he tries a flying tackle on Pincher! "WHAT THE FRAG ARE YA DOIN'???!" He bellows, mid tackle. Combat: Crosshairs sets his defense level to Fearless. Combat: Crosshairs strikes White Cross Spaceman with his STOP CUTTING YOURSELF YOU EMO (Grab) attack! Combat: Crosshairs (Crosshairs) used "Grab": A Level 0 MELEE attack. Combat: You took 0 damage. Crosshairs is heard to bellow "WHAT THE FRAG ARE YA DOIN'??!" Crosshairs says, "ENCORE, GRAB HIM!!!" Encore says, "Ang on, what? What da frag's goin on?" Crosshairs says, "Fraggin' idjit's cuttin' himself open. Look at his arm, and the scalpel!!!" Crosshairs says, "At least grab the damn knife" Encore says, "...Cross, he's cuttin the shell, not himself." White Cross Spaceman peers back around at Encore, with his own mechfluid still dripping off the knife and trickling from the ragged self-inflicted wound. He answers cheerily, "Quite fine! Crosshairs has been most obliging in supplying me with proper apparatus for my study." Pincher dips the knife into anti-septic solution for a moment and then sets it back down on the tray. "I must apologise. I don't know your name. I'm Pincher. Chemical engineer. I am to take it you have an appreciation of the fine science of brewing and distillation?" The Pretender smiles, though there's a tired look around his optics, and he reaches for a rack of neatly-labeled syringes full of a sort of green goo. Pincher never makes the grab, because Crosshairs tackles him down, which, given that Pincher had cuffed his arm down to the table to ensure consistent positioning during trials, means that he ends up slumped against the side of the table, sitting on the floor, arm wrenched above him. He gives Crosshairs a perplexed look and asks, "What?" Crosshairs says, "*scuffling sounds* We've proven those shells are effectively -- nrgh -- part of 'em." Crosshairs pauses. "Err, moment." Encore says, "...and 'e's a scientist, Cross, tryin' ta figure out about the suits, numbnuts. I fought you was supposed ta be smart?" Pincher says, "Er, yes, the conjecture of your companion is correct. I do not exactly have a vast supply of synthetic flesh on which to experiment, and given the amount of pain involved in the trials, it would be cruelty itself to ask for any volunteers. I could not do so, in good conscience." Crosshairs sounds almost hurt, his cyclic pump circulating hard as he breathes to cool his systems. "Eh, you don't understand, Encore. I saw that happen once . . young mech, was thrown in the brig for tellin' Sentinel Prime his colors made him look like a ladymech. He was in there so long that he started goin' nuts . . . and cuttin' on himself. When they found him, all that was left was a laughin' mess of wires and circuits and . . " Crosshairs clamps his mouth shut. "Sorry, Pincher." Encore walks into the cell moments behind Crosshairs, his own pace much more leisurely. He understands the Scientific method of taking a sample and investigating it and what it does, and ends up leaning against the door-frame looking at Crosshairs with a smirk, arms folded across his chest. "You take a sample, ya test it, ya see what yer doin'. That said, yer concern for the guy has... calmed me a bit. I'm sure we all 'member how heated I got at Decibel..." Pincher says, "Oh, hahahah hah! Heh. No, I am sorry to disconcert you, but I am not suffering from any such mental aberration at the moment, to the best of my knowledge." Whiteout chuckles, "Calm down, Crosshairs! Those guys just got in there last night, I don't think they'll turn weird overnight. Unless they already were weird." Encore says, "I do understand, guv. But not everyone's gonna do dat- 'specially not a scientist. An' a crazy dude isn' gonna strap his arm up an' secure it to the table with what looks to be ANTISEPTICS an' testin' chemicals, is 'e?" Crosshairs strikes into the scientist like an outsized missile; and continues wrestling with him for a moment even though there is no resistance. It's hard to say what Crosshairs is trying to do, but he eventually slows down and contents himself with just sitting on Pincher as the radio chatter goes back and forth. His optics actually look a little glazed and one has to wonder if the old mech has wigged out completely in response to this. He makes no effort to get off of Pincher, despite the awkward angle that the other's arm is at. After a moment, he cants an embarassed look at Encore, and moves to let Pincher stand back up. He bends to pick up the compressed air device, and hands it to Pincher. "Uh, try the stuff in this. I modified a standard paint gun. It should let you control application thickness, and if you press it right to the flesh, there's enough power it'll work like a terran hypospray." Crosshairs grunts. "Shaddup." Crosshairs is obviously embarassed. White Cross Spaceman chuckles a bit over the misunderstanding, but his laughter might not make anyone feel particularly assured about the intactness of his sanity. He gets up to his feet and reaches over to palpate that strained shoulder. Hurts a bit, but not as much as the knife wound down on his arm. He'll deal. Pincher reaches out and takes the compressed air device, looking it over thoughtfully. After a moment, he pulls the cartridge out of the syringe he was reaching for earlier and loads it into the device. He jots down a few notes on the change in procedure and then tries it out, chattering, "Thank you for your concern. I do appreciate it. I've been treated better than I expected, to be honest." He doesn't comment on Crosshairs's odd little freak-out, though he makes a note of it mentally. "And thank you, too. Now let's see how well this works..." Encore stands more upright and leans in closer to look, optics whirring slightly as they shift and refocus. "So... what are you actually doin', Pincher?" He pauses. "An' in response to your question, me name's Encore, an' I'm Fanfare's brother. Y'might now 'im, he's da big cargo-carrier with... rather interesting tastes in paint!" Crosshairs answers for Pincher in an effort to distract those who are here from his personal issues. "I asked him to synthetize some of the compound that I found that actually works on repairing damage to their organic shells." He answers, gruffly. "That is what -that- thing is for. I shoulda figured out that he was workin' on that, but all I saw was a cut up mess 'o wires and not paleface here." He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. "I'm not treatin' them bad, promise. If anything, I've been bustin' my aft trying to make sure that everything's okay. You wern't around when it happened, but we Targetmasters and Headmasters got mistreated real bad." He pokes over Pincher with a scanner. "So, give it a go andlet's see if that works." Crosshairs adds to Encore. "And I don't want that mistreatment to happen again." White Cross Spaceman cannot really criticise anyone's paintjob. He's a cyan and magenta monstrosity in scorpion mode. However, he hasn't met Fanfare yet! Upon being asked to exposit, Pincher happily does so, "Pleased to meet you, Encore. This? Oh, hah, Crosshairs there, as he said, found a compound that seems to promote accelerated wound healing and tissue regrowth, and I've been working on refining the blend for Pretender polydermal flesh grafts. As I mentioned, I am rather lacking in testing material." He points over at some petri dishes. "I've taken a shot at in vitro growing the pseudoflesh, both for testing purposes and for post-battle patching upon the traumatic loss of tissue, but biology is not exactly my area of expertise. So for now, I'm all the test subject I have. It's pretty simple, really. Make a controlled test cut, apply a batch, and document the results as it heals. Of course, I could go on about the methodology, but-" -yes, shut up, Pincher. He gets that enough to know to stop himself, sometimes. Pincher applies the standard batch he's come up with to the wound, so he can check if the new application method makes an significant difference in healing time and efficacy, taking a moment to measure the thickness of the applied layer. He carefully closes the wound shut and then applies some medical grade cyanoacrylate to seal it after the application. He inquires quizzically, "Targetmasters? Headmasters?" Encore listens intently to Crosshairs, pulling his helmet off and clipping it to his belt. He has, underneath it, a chrome represenation of a classic Marine's flat-topped haircut as sported by many military personnel. It is, howevere, solid - but its even textured on top, complete with forehead and strap-marks. Torque's work, it has to be. "I readya, Crosshairs. We're Autobots, we gotta look after our people, even if they might be a threat to us." He shrugs a little. "Personally I fink when Windshear mashed all dem buttons or whatever 'e' did on the ship, it fried da control software, otherwise ya wouldn't have been able to rebell 'gainst him... or 'is shell or whatever da frag dat was." He shrugs. Then he hears Pincher ask about the Masters, and looks at Crosshairs. "So far as I know they're kinna cyborgs too, fused with Nebulans or somefing, becomes their head an' gun or somefing. Dun really follow it, meself..." Crosshairs points at the back of Pincher's neck, in response to Encore. "I figured out that much. There's a nerve cluster in the back of the neck that was fried. That was probably supposed to kill them, but it didn't. Doesn't seem to be regrowing either, so it's something that was added as an afterthought." He stares briefly at Encore's hair, and says absolutely nothing. He glances at Pincher briefly and reaches into subspace and hands him his gun. It's a bulky looking grenade launcher. Except, if Pincher pokes it, it seems to yawn and grumble. At least that's what it sounds like. "He has the right of it. Here, wake up, you oaf." White Cross Spaceman notes, mostly to himself, "Hypospray application seems improved delivery method over 'dump patient with bucket', less wastage, better adhesion, and preservation of patient dignity," but he snaps out of that and answers back to Encore, "Windshear? And yes, that was Thunderwing's shell, being remote-controlled somehow. I would speculate via an axis cradle rig. Thunderwing is still out there somewhere, and..." Pincher shakes a bit, optics narrowed. "...he needs to be stopped," is all he can manage to say politely. Pincher takes the gun awkwardly with his free hand, looking a bit confused, and he asks, "Your sidearm is a cyborg?" Encore nods in agreement with Pincher at THunderwing needing to be stopped. He unslings the EBS and expertly straps it in place, showing off his newest, custom-built weapon. Crosshairs will see, and possibly even disapprove of the modification he's made to the side of the big railgun - "For Thunderwing" is written on the side. "Got a present for that cock when I sees 'im..." He says, re-stowing the 90mm railgun with a slight nod. "Is it?" He looks over at Crosshairs' gun and blink-blinks, watching it yawn and move. It's no the scientist who gently pokes it, but the big green autobot. He's surprisingly gentle. "...huh." With a tired yawn, the grenade launcher transforms into a humanoid in heavy battle armor. He removes his helmet to display flowing white hair. He seems awkward in Pincher's claw, but what do you expect as he just woke up? He seems on the level though, thanks to their mental link. "Headmasters and Targetmasters are Nebulans -- organics who are happy to help our Cybertronian companions with certain issues. Sometimes it is a lack of weapon, or a lack of a head. You should read about it in the files. Did I hear you were an engineer? I was a civil engineer, once." Cheerful enough, for a weapon of mass destruction. "I . . really, really reccomend you read the files." Crosshairs smiles at Pincher. "You have to admit though, drench the paitent with a bucket was satisfying in it's own way." Crosshairs does not seem bothered by the modification at all. Either way, the transformed Grenade Launcher chatters on. "As one Engineer to another, Pinpointer at your . . MY WORD! That is not very nice language! There might be children, or mechaninimals present.. and do you Cybertronians even ha..." Pinpointer turns and looks up at Pincher. "Does your shell have one?" White Cross Spaceman has hands as a Pretender, actually. He finds the hands a little annoying, because he's used to claws. All those fingers, he doesn't know what to do with them, but he's learning to cope. Pincher tries to set Pinpointer down on the table, next to the syringe racks, because he has some notes he needs to be taking. Pincher looks over Encore's railgun, chewing his lip thoughtfully, and then back over at Pinpointer. "Yes, I am a chemical engineer. I'll get caught up on the files as soon as I can." He points over at the syringe rack. "Ought I also be looking into growth factors for Nebulans, then?" He frowns thinly at Crosshairs about the bucket crack, but he doesn't say anything. Then Pincher promptly looks mortified. If he wasn't cuffed to the table, he'd turn into a scorpion and hide /under/ the table. After a long moment, he coughs and mutters, "I am in no way anatomically correct. It's just an armoured shell. Honestly, would you ask if my alternate form is capable of producing a spermatophore?" Encore scowls a bit, nodding at Pinpointer. "Not a very nice word for not a very nice cybertronian. Makes Galvatron look like Primus almost, 'e's dat bad." He sniffs. "I don't usually use 'uman curses, but da pinkies have a way wiv 'em, makin' it satisfyin. an'..." He trails off, looking at Pincher and double-blinks, making that faint snorting noise that people - even Autobots - make when they're trying, and failing, not to laugh. Encore is also, fainly, humming a certain song by Voltaire. Pinpointer scowls at Encore. It's a very humanoid gesture. "Still, not very nice! You don't know who's present! There used to be Minibots around here, and . . and . . " He trails off as Pincher replies to him. "Oh, stop it. Don't be all scientifically prudish with me! You've got an organic shell, I had to ask! I have no desire to see your shell trying to breed with . . . what's it's name . . . Catilla's, it is a mental image that conjures the stuff of nightmares!" The nebulan places his hand against his forehead in mock horror. "Anyway, new subject! Is the stuff working?" Crosshairs leans over as well to see if it is working, and reaches out to take Pinpointer. "Anyway, I need to finish my nap. I was cycling grenades all night last night . . " The grenade launcher turned person continues rambling until Crosshairs pokes him, whereupon he transforms and is stored away for now. "Grunt." That is what Crosshairs says. White Cross Spaceman looks like he's going to be physically ill, skin taking on a greenish cast. He sputters and huffs, clearly very flustered, "Shells are synthetically generated pseudolife that comes out of a tube! There's no room inside for reproductive capacity, which isn't even useful towards the stated goal of added armoured protection, anyway. In engineering, it is always a question not of what component should you add, but what component can you take away and still have a functional product." Or, 'Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away,' as Antoine de Saint-Exuper said, not that Pincher has any reason to know that quote yet. "Rest well, Pinpointer. Now, those readings..." He tries to hand Crosshairs his collected data, going over some of the more interesting points. The short of it is, the hypospray applicator seems to work and is an improvement over a bucket. Encore just leans against the wall and sniggers to himself in the corner, gradually getting a grip as his chuckling dies away to a few last, solitary chucklettes, before its gone. "Heh... hehe... ahem. Honest opinion, Pincher, Cross'airs. If we can get rid of th' mind-control fingywotsit, are the pretender shells worth keepin', an' would you trust 'em against Thunderwing? I know the fight 'gainst 'im's gomin' soon. I c'n feel it in me propeller blades. There's a... tension in th air, has been since we got back, an' it's not us' coz you guys are back. You 'ad any sucess in gettin' out of 'em yet?" Crosshairs glances at Encore. "Absolutely, on both accounts. We got Pincher out last night. And . . I think there is delicious irony in using what someone makes against them. These shells are powerful. We should be careful, but we've been given something that will help destroy Thunderwing. I say use 'em, but I'm an armorer and I make things to shoot people with." He tilts his head. "That reminds me, how is the EBS working out for you?" Pinpointer, fortunatly, does not hear Pincher's diatribe. Crosshairs does take his notes, though, and he listens to him for a moment. "So, we've worked this out. This will handle wounds. I was watching a movie last night and I saw a. . . " He grunts. "What is it? A star wars. They had this thing called a bacta tank in it . . and it would work perfectly. Complete immersion in the healing solution." White Cross Spaceman checks to make sure the wound is about healed and undoes the cuffs, stretching a bit. Spending all night cutting himself and documenting the effects of different formulae on the rate of healing has made him pretty achey, though he wouldn't admit it, workaholic that he is. He unlatches the shell, the thing swinging open with a whiff of brimstone, and Pincher topples out, only not falling because he catches himself on the side of the table. Pincher's pretty... unpleasant looking, with claws instead of hands and horns on his helmet, even if one can get past the stink of chemicals. "See? Anyway, the shell provides me with a great deal more armour, at a slightly penalty to my combat mobility, as well as providing additional weaponry. By the way, Crosshairs, if you're a weaponer? I suppose I should leave you with specifications for my standard loadout, in case I break any of it. ...can't say I've seen that movie, but if it is anything like full immersion tubes, it should suffice for treatment of extensive wounds, being similar to the method by which the shells were generated in the first place." Pincher turns into everyone's favourite friendly neighbourhood scorpion-man! Encore grins "I like them movies. The EBS is good - I've fired one shot with it - an got a bollockin' fer it..." He unslings the gun but doesn't fit it on, examining the rails. "Lookin' at the state of these rails, I reckon I got two shots before they'll need replacing. Still, should make a tastybig hole in Thunderwing..." He grins, adding "Would be a good idea, makin' a gooptank. Might help the Pinkies, too, yanno. It'd be good for PR if we were seen taking people here to Autobot City an' healin' 'em up..." He looks Pincher up and down, blinking as he finally recognises the scorpion-bot. "You was at the hospital planet, that's where you got taken..." He blink-blinks. "I fought you was dun fer!" Combat: Crosshairs runs a diagnostic check on Pincher Crosshairs nods at Encore. "Good." He says and leaves it at that. "Come see me if you need or want new rails." He focuses on Pincher. "Standard Loadout?" He wonders. "I suppose, you manafacture your own chemicals for use in offense?" It's a pointed question, but it's a logical assumption. Pincher -is- a chemical engineer afterall. "I'll get the tubes and more of these spray cans made. Anythin' else I ought to do, you think? I've got to go get some other stuff fixed." Pincher brushes a claw against his hand, and he insists, "I /told/ Impactor I wasn't dead. Why does no one ever believe me when I say I'm alive? The kidnapping was unpleasant but hardly lethal." As for Crosshairs's accusation, Pincher looks a bit rueful, but it is hard to tell, given the mask he wears. Voice a little muffled, he admits, "I do engage in chemical warfare. I try to be conscientious about it, however. The last thing I want is to unleash a nasty case of contagious Transformer-eating rust and have my fellow Autobots come down with it. As far as I'm concerned, no level of collateral damage is acceptable." He pulls out some vials of something that looks rather clear and harmless, much like water. "Chemically modified heavy water variant. Uses radioactivity to induce microdefects, causing the target's self-repair system to divert energy to repairs, leaving less energy for use of weapons, but the isotope splits apart to become harmless in a matter of seconds when exposed to an oxygen environment, to reduce the hazards of lingering radiotoxicity. As for materials, I suppose I am running a bit low on butane feedstock, and I could use more of the size G-9 syringes, if they are available." You drop Heavy Water. Crosshairs listens to this, and he nods appreciatively. "Very interesting, good eye for resource use. I try to keep collateral damage to a minimum when I can. Hate the idea of hurtin' someone who's innocent. Last thing I made was a disorientation pistol that scrambled systems with a blast of light and sound. Called it Rainbow Bright after this obnoxious show I saw." He's about to say something else, when his wrist beeps twice. "Oh, fraggit. Gotta go. I help out with various bomb squads round the world, and apparently they got a good one. Be, uh, good. You can leave here, yanno, and take what you want from the lab and..." *ZOOM* Crosshairs tosses Pinpointer upwards as his body rotates down. Wheels fold into position and begin to spin as his bulk settles down into teh shape of his Cybertronian All Terrain Tech Truck Altmode! Pinpointer is drawn to a turret mount on the roof by magnetic grapples. The Autobot targetmaster duo are now in vehicle mode! Combat: Cybertronian All Terrain Tech Truck begins retreating, outrunning all pursuit. Encore blinkblinks "Hah, that's clever." He sniffs, then looks at Pincher again. "...say. You've got much higher-grade fractional distillation gear than I'd be able to get, haven't you? Is it... suitable for distilling- You gotta go 'ave ya guv? No worries." He pauses. "Listen, don't wanna be the bearer of bad news an' all that, but... are the guys 'lowed out? Don't wanna get anyone in the shit..." Pincher takes back his vials of very dangerous water as Crosshairs books it out of there. Volunteer work with a bomb squad? Sounds nice. Be good? Oh, Pincher tries! He tries so hard! But he knows he can't say that he really has, after the business working under Thunderwing. He stares after Crosshairs, pinchers clacking nervously, expression vaguely haunted. Encore's words shake him out of his reverie. "I, er, yes. I do indeed have some excellent distillation equipment, ha ha! Heh." He rubs the back of his helm, still nervous, but obviously eager for the change in subject. "Personally, I'm just going to stay here for a while. Less risky, and I do have work to do." You take Heavy Water. Encore grins widely. "Is it contaminated with chemicals or..." He pauses "Is it infact ready for the distillation of, say, energon moonshine...?" Pincher looks mildly affronted that Encore would imply that Pincher only has /one/ distillation set. He has many! One size does not fit all! He points a claw over at the current set and explains, "That one is in use, but..." he pulls open some of the table drawers and rummages through them, setting up a second set off to the side, one more geared towards ingestible end-products, as opposed to medicinal products. "I keep my glassware impeccably clean. Just good scientific practice, but by the way? Don't put hematopoetics in glass. Found that out the hard way. That's just a mess." Encore grins "I'll be back in... not long." the autobot declares, before running off at full pace. He's so anxious to get where he's going, wherever that is, that he transforms and takes to the air, the noise of his engines growling loudly. He returns, perhaps ten minutes later, hauling a large cargo trailer behind him, filled with all manner of chemicals. A large portion of them aren't good for the Cybertronian body, and at least two of them are banned on three worlds. "If you wouldn't mind, I fought we could do 'bit of distillery, make us some Shine." Pincher looks a bit torn and sorely tempted by the contents of that trailer. On the one claw, he doesn't do much recreational chemistry. On the other claw, he doesn't want to disappoint his new Autobot comrades! His shell reappears, and he latches it back on, checking the now-healed wound, and he explains, "I need to check the next chemical formula, but while I'm waiting for the wound to heal, I can help you with your... 'Shine'?" Multi-tasking! The solution to everything. Pincher pretends to be a giant Ray from the Ghostbusters in armour. Encore nodnods "Yeah, dat works." He grins, setting up the basic system to start the basic distillation of enerhol - carefully. He first checks all of the cooling systems for the different fraction levels are set up and ready to decant their products into vials, and then he lights the heat source. Only /then/ does he place the first batch of low-grade enerhol over the flame, whistling quietly as he selects from the palette seemingly at random. Pincher, however, will notice that he is infact carefully selecting substances which enhance feelings of euphoria, calmness, and give a general good-vibe feeling. He's also selecting them on a secondary criteria of the colour green, choosing substances that'll enhance the colour over more potent ones that would shade it other hues. "You do what you gotta do doc, I'm jus' gonna make you guys up a batch of Green Smile. If any fraggers need it, it's you guys after what you been through." Encore is just selecting the chemicals and putting them on the workbench for easy reach White Cross Spaceman , meanwhile, is busy cutting his arm open again with that serrated knife and then trying to patch it up with Crosshair's hypospray applicator, a slightly different formulation of the chemicals he's been working on, and, of course, his beloved cyanoacrylate. He's pretty busy jotting down notes on the results and taking readings from the data collectors he's set up. Once he's gotten to the stage where he only needs to check every five minutes or so, he glances over at what Encore is doing and remarks, "Ah, aesthetic value is a selection criteria, I take it?' Encore nods as he works, watching the enerhol vapour rising up through the distillation column, separating at into high-grade, medium-grade, extremely impure, and water and recondensing in its places. He nods, not looking up rom where he is. "Yeh, course. Wouldn't work if it was called Green Smile an' was purple, would it?" He says simply, transferring the medium and very impure back into the starter vial at the bottom. At the same time, he's carefully adding certain amounts of the chemicals into the bottom vial and monitoring the colour of the end product in all four 'production' beakers. "This isn't like normal chemistry..." he muses. "'s... 's... more of an art, really. Each batch of low-grade enerhol I end up with is different, and must be treated differently to get the right result." The stuff in the uppermost outlet beaker - the high-purity enerhol - is starting to take on a rather attractive blue-green hue. Only half of it is poured back into the input at this stage, the Autobot swirling it occasionally, and smelling it. He's well-practiced, and seems to be greatly enjoying the superior distillation column White Cross Spaceman rubs his chin with his free hand and sniffs at Encore's work. Certainly smells better than most of the stuff Pincher normally works on! He tends to do a lot of cyberneurotoxins, nasty stuff. Pincher chuckles and explains, "I was always more concerned with industrial mass production, before the war, not so much with artisan batches of comestibles, but there's a need for that, too, and oh, that is a lovely hue. Have you thought about some lithium additives as sprinkles? They burn a fantastic green when they hit an aqueous solution." Encore looks up at Pincher and tilts his head thoughtfully, stepping back from the distillation column quite some distance. He goes all the way to the security desk, infact, not wishing to be aaaanywhere near it when he lights his cigar, which he promptly does. "But is there any way ta stop them burnin' in th' container? I mean I'm sellin' this stuff by the keg - I make a three-keg batch - or... or dya mean sprinkles fer once it's poured?" White Cross Spaceman explains, gesturing wildly with his free hand, "Yes, yes, as sprinkles for once it's poured, of course! You could keep them in little air-tight packets and just open them up and sprinkle them on when it's time to drink. They'll burn out on their own once the exothermic reaction is complete." Encore blinks and nods "Hnnn, interesting. But there's also the problem of the fact that enerhol itself is pretty volatile..." He chuckles, having a few pulls of his cigar and putting it out before returning to the distillation. He suddenly removes the full vial from the top and puts a new one in place, *very* carefully pouring one quarter of the old vial into the input and then decanting the rest into what appears to be the final container. There'll be enough in there, when full, for all those who wore Pretender shells to have two pretty decent-sized glasses. Again Encore distills, repeating the process until it's full - at which point he very thoroughly cleans and dries all the vials, grinning at Pincher. "Your turn!" White Cross Spaceman goes into a bit more detail, clarifying, "I am well aware of energon's inherent volatility, but little tiny sprinkles, if added in a low enough dose, shouldn't cause a high enough temperature shift to initiate energon combustion, especially if coupled with some anti-knock stabilisers." He blinks when Encore says it is 'his turn', jotting down a few more notes on the progress of his arm - perhaps some more toluene sidegroups on the next batch. Wait, does Encore expect Pincher to produce something suitable for consumption? The guy who makes Agent Orange and napalm and tear gas in his spare time? He blinks again, saying slowly, "I do have some experience distilling energon from raw fuel sources," that's a chemist's survival skill when he's cut off from normal Cybertronian civilisation, "but potability was my sole concern, not flavor or aesthetics." He mutters more lowly, "I do not recommend coal. Tends to cause transformation and motor control lock up." Encore nods slowly "Okay. Well, what would you want a brew to do?" He tilts his head, grinning softly as he puts in the low-grade enerhol and begins the first runthrough of distillation. "I can enhance any mood you want. Any strength." White Cross Spaceman clicks his thumbs against his fingers (well, tries - stupid fingers, not clicking) thoughtfully. "I, uhm.... heh. Heh heh. /Hah/, I... nevermind." Pincher's done just a wee bit of work in /fear/ toxins. He's not proud of that work at all. "...why don't we make something that'll make people /happy/?" That would be a nice change from weaponised chemicals, he thinks. Encore chuckles and motions to the green bottle. "Green Smile, 'zactly what the Doctor ordered, guv." He looks over at the clock and yelps, chuckling a bit as he turns off the distillation column. He also hides his ingredients somewhere with a slightly shifty grin "Fraid though I gotta go for now - let me know 'ow that stuff goes down with the other guys, will ya?" he grins.